


Statement of Fact

by Calliatra



Category: NCIS
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 09:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2019480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliatra/pseuds/Calliatra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t talk much. It works for them. A progression of meals and not-quite conversations, and maybe something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Statement of Fact

It’s a cold night. Another case solved, another dirtbag about to be put away for good, another gold star for inter-agency cooperation. Another three innocent civilians dead. Another dozen safe now. Another “job well done.”

“Takeout from the Chinese place?” Fornell suggests, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

“You’re buying,” Gibbs says, because that’s as much agreement as he can muster.

.

They sit at Gibbs’ bare wood table and eat straight from the cartons with cheap wooden chopsticks, but they have plates underneath because Fornell set them.

“Beer?” Gibbs offers.

Fornell shakes his head. “Can’t, gotta be able to drive myself home.”

Gibbs gets him a coffee instead.

 

* *

 

It’s a warm night, and the middle of a stagnating joint investigation.

“Do they ever actually call anyone else in when our agencies need to cooperate, or is it really always just us?” Fornell asks, exasperated. “This wasn’t even originally my case.”

“Your boss and mine don’t like pissin’ contests. They know we’ll get it done without too much of a mess.” Gibbs probably talks to his boss more than Fornell does to his. About these things and others.

Fornell stares at him with disbelief. “Are you saying that I’m not territorial? That _you’re_ not territorial?”

“I’m sayin’ why not keep a good thing going. We figured out how to compromise. Took us a while, but we did.”

“You got a point there.” Fornell takes one last swig of his coffee before tossing it into the parking lot garbage can and reaching for his car keys. “Your place? I’ll make pasta if you can find me some non-alcoholic beer.”

Gibbs throws his empty cup after Fornell’s. “See ya there.” 

 

* *

 

It’s a slow night, the kind that drags on and on without sleep and might as well be put to good use. Gibbs is in his basement, sawing a two-by-four, and doesn’t hear the front door opening. He does notice hear the basement door, though, and turns around.

“Tobias?”

“I brought Vietnamese,” Fornell says by way of explanation, and raises the bag.

.

“What happened?” Gibbs asks, after they’ve gone through half their meal silently. A man lost, a dirtbag gotten away, maybe an ex-wife out for blood, those are the things have a guy looking for a friend. As Gibbs knows only too well. Too often in the past his friends have been a glass of bourbon and a boat, but things are changing.

“Nothing,” Fornell says.

Gibbs looks at him.

“Seriously, nothing. Don’t look so worried. I was working late, on the paperwork from our last case, and I got bored. Thought you might be, too.”

Gibbs says nothing for a moment, just long enough for Fornell to glance away from him.

“Look-”

“I’m making steak tomorrow, if you wanna come. Emily’s with Diane, right?”

“Yeah, she is. That sounds… good. Eight o’clock?”

He nods, and they return to an easy silence.

 

* *

 

It’s pasta night. It’s not a real regular thing, it’s just whenever Diane has Emily for the weekend and neither of them have a case that keeps them too late.

“…and just as I’m thinking we’re completely screwed,” Tobias says, gesturing with his fork and coming very close to flinging tomato sauce at the wall, “our new probie pulls the file off the towel dispenser in the men’s restroom! Said Abott had told her that’s where I liked to review all important cases.” He laughs and so does Gibbs. “Yours ever do anything like that?”

“Nah. They know not to mess with important stuff.” He plucks the fork from Tobias’ hand and sets it down. “One time Tony convinced McGee that I wanted all reports handwritten, not typed. McGee actually wrote twenty pages by hand. And then had to go type it all again.”

Tobias chuckles. “I swear they get more gullible every year.”

“Or maybe we’re just gettin’ old.”

“And cynical?”

“That’s just you,” Gibbs grins, getting up. “Want a beer?”

“Yeah, why not. I can call a cab.”

“Or you could take the couch.”

Tobias blinks. “I thought you sleep on the couch.”

“Only sometimes.”

“What, when you kick yourself out of bed?”

“If you don’t wan’ it-” Gibbs starts, but Tobias raises his hands in surrender.

“I’m not saying that. You sure you wouldn’t mind?”

Gibbs rolls his eyes, or pretends to, and heads to the kitchen to grab two beers. 

 

* *

 

It’s steak night, which means two steaks, cowboy-style, on the sofa, along with whatever side dish Tobias decided to bring. Today it’s potato chips.

“Put something brainless on,” Tobias begs, motioning to the TV. “I’m not up to anything more today.”

Gibbs taps the remote and finds a detailed report on some celebrity he doesn’t know and her apparently complicated love life. “Rough day?”

“Just exhausting. First a stakeout, and then we had to chase down two perps who thought running across a crowded square brandishing weapons was a good idea.”

“You catch ‘em?”

“‘Course. But then we had a square full of frightened civilians to deal with.” Tobias leans back and groans slightly, rubbing his eyes. “Not a whole lot of fun, I can tell you.” Then he looks up and chuckles. “And how was _your_ day, honey?”

Gibbs throws the bag of chips at him.

.

Three celebrities later Tobias is snoring lightly, his head shifting unsteadily on the back of the couch. Gibbs sips his beer and considers changing the channel to something he at least has some hope of understanding. Then Tobias’ head slips off the backrest and onto his shoulder and, after considering his options, he figures he might as well get comfortable.

.

He wakes up to a sudden burst of music and realizes the TV has switched to a rerun of some variety show. Tobias is still asleep, so he carefully extracts his arm from around Tobias’ back and shifts him to a horizontal position on the couch. He mutes the TV, but leaves it on.

.

“Hey, you still got my toothbrush?” Tobias asks, sitting up and rubbing his eyes as Gibbs comes out of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee.

“Bathroom,” Gibbs says. He keeps a handful of cheap, individually sealed toothbrushes around for spontaneous overnight guests. Usually he throws them away afterwards.

Tobias accepts one of the steaming mugs gratefully and takes a long drink before coming to life a little more. “Sorry for passing out on you last night.”

Gibbs grunts to indicate that’s not a problem. And that apologies are a sign of weakness. It’s too early for long conversations.

“You know, your couch is really surprisingly comfortable. Well, you would know, since you sleep here all the time.” He doesn’t mention that _someone_ pulled off his shoes and threw a blanket over him. Gibbs approves of that. It’s not the kind of thing that should be mentioned.

“Go brush your teeth, Tobias.”

“You sound like my ex-wife. This too much conversation for you before breakfast?”

“You sound like _my_ ex-wife!”

“All right, all right. I’m getting out of your hair.” He sets his mug down and heads for the bathroom. “But you better not try to kick me out without breakfast.”

“Cereal,” Gibbs offers, “Or there’s eggs.”

 .

Tobias makes eggs with bacon for both of them. Gibbs helps himself to seconds, and frowns when, instead of taking the silent compliment, Tobias just looks discontent.

“What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing. Just wishing I’d kept my overnight bag in the car.” He tugs at his wrinkled shirt. “I hate wearing clothes I’ve slept in.”

“So bring it next time,” Gibbs says, because that’s all there is to it.

 

* *

 

It’s not pasta night, and it hasn’t been for a while. Tobias is undercover again for some case Gibbs knows absolutely nothing about. Tobias couldn’t or wouldn’t talk about it, and Gibbs respects that.

It’s late when Gibbs gets home, and he heads straight for the living room without bothering to turn on the lights. Nevertheless, he spots the dark shape on his couch right away. His hand is on his holster, a warning in the air before his eyes adjust and he recognizes white-grey beard of the person sleeping there.

“Tobias?”

A muffled grunt comes from the far end of the couch.

“Hey, Tobias!”

This time the reply, while still muffled, is understandable. “‘s takeout ‘n the fridge.”

“Thought you were undercover.” It’s not a question, exactly.

“I was.” Tobias yawns, sitting up and running a hand over his face. “Op ended tonight. We got our guys. I’m a free man again.”

And you came here? Gibbs doesn’t say, because he doesn’t argue with facts. “You wanna eat now?” He asks instead.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, why not?” Tobias doesn’t sound completely awake yet.

Gibbs finds the containers in the fridge and reheats the food. By the time he’s carrying the plates, some silverware, and two beers out of the kitchen, Tobias has turned on the lights, dumped his pillow and blanket on a chair and cleared the couch table of old magazines. Gibbs drops down next to him.

“What’d you get?” he asks. He doesn’t recognize either dish.

“Ethiopian,” Tobias says, tearing off a piece of what looks like pancake and picking up a piece of meat with it.

Gibbs raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that. This is how you’re supposed to eat it. It’s good, try it.”

Gibbs does, slightly skeptically. “So you done with this case now?”

“Pretty much. Bit of paperwork left, but not that much. That’s the benefit of undercover work, your handler’s the one who has to write all the reports.” He takes a sip of beer. “And the psych eval, of course. Gotta make sure that I still remember who I am and that I didn’t maybe decide I liked the criminal life better.”

“Did you?”

“Hell no! I like not worrying that my boss is going to pull his gun on me if he doesn’t like my report. And I like…” he looks around and waves his hands at nothing in particular, “normalcy.” Then he grins and picks up a takeout menu from the top of the now neat magazine pile. It’s from the Italian place downtown, folded over to the pasta part. “I see you compensated for my absence.”

Gibbs shrugs like he’d forgotten. “Not as good as yours.”

Tobias looks at him and for a moment Gibbs gets the feeling he’s thinking of saying something… unexpected.

But then Tobias laughs lightly and shakes his head. “I would hope not!” he exclaims with his best feigned indignation. “They’re my grandmother’s family recipes!” 

 

* *

 

It’s pasta night again, though this time Tobias is branching out into making fish - grilled salmon with zucchini. Gibbs has been banned from the kitchen - or at least the stove area - for trying to steal food from the pot, and has been relegated to setting the table. Tobias dropped his overnight bag by the couch when he came in, so Gibbs sets two beers on the table without asking. Tobias brings the food out a minute later.

.

“This is good,” Gibbs says, pointing at his plate with his fork.

“I could teach you how to make it. It’s easy,” Tobias pauses for a second. “Do you ever actually cook anything other than stuff you can just hang over the fireplace?”

Gibbs just narrows his eyes at him in response. Mainly because he has his mouth full.

.

Gibbs wakes up with a gasp, his hands reaching out to grab people who aren’t there, to save people who are beyond saving. His hands are at his sides and he’s still in bed. He gets up.

He doesn’t spend his nights working in his basement anymore, not all of them, not like he used to. Tonight looks to be that kind of night, though. He pads downstairs in socks, quietly.

“Jethro?” Not quietly enough, apparently. Tobias is sitting up, not really awake.

“Basement,” Gibbs grunts. “Go back to sleep, Tobias.”

Tobias either doesn’t hear or doesn’t listen, because he pushes the blanket off, thinks better of it, wraps it around his shoulders, and follows Gibbs to the basement and down the stairs. He sits on the bottom steps while Gibbs goes to pour himself some bourbon.

“What’s up?” Tobias asks through a badly concealed yawn.

Gibbs hands him a mason jar, and takes a drink from his own. “Can’t sleep.”

Tobias sips at the bourbon and accepts that answer. He’s wearing pajamas with what look like colorful cartoon horses on them. Gibbs raises his eyebrows.

“Emily gave them to me for Christmas.”

“You don’t think maybe she meant that as a _joke_?”

Tobias shrugs. “They’re comfortable.”

Gibbs shakes his head and sets to work on some small pieces of wood left over from other projects with a pencil and a measuring tape. It’s good to be able to find a use for them.

“What are you making?”

“Toys.” He doesn’t much like explaining it. “For the children’s hospital.”

“Oh.” A silence. “Hey, how come I’ve never seen any of your team turn up here? I thought they were always dropping by when they had problems.”

“They’re in pretty good shape these days,” Gibbs says, not without pride.

“That’s lucky, I guess.” Tobias runs a hand over his beard and stares into the middle distance.

“Thought you were going to shave that off.” It’s as close to a question as Gibbs is going to get.

“I don’t know,” Tobias says slowly, or maybe sleepily, “I might keep it. It’s grown on me.”

There’s another silence.

“So, tomorrow…” Tobias begins, like he’s not sure himself what he’s going for.

“I was gonna make steak,” Gibbs offers. “That work for you?”

Tobias nods. “Eight?” he asks, like they’re usual time could have shifted while he wasn’t paying attention.

Gibbs makes an affirmative sound and focuses on making precise markings with a blunt pencil.

They don’t speak for another while. Tobias shifts and pulls the blanket more tightly around himself. “You wanna be alone?” he asks, finally.

Gibbs shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says, because _no_ would be going too far.

.

They sleep in the next morning. It’s bright outside by the time Tobias wanders into the kitchen where Gibbs is making coffee. “Morning,” he grunts. Neither of them is completely awake yet, but they’re dressed and ready to pretend to be. As soon as there’s coffee. They wait in comfortable silence.

The silence is broken suddenly when Tobias’ phone rings. He steps out to answer it and Gibbs recognizes the way his whole posture sharpen from one second to the next. His answers are clipped and precise. The coffee is ready, and Gibbs pours it into two mugs.

Tobias rushes back in, grabs one of the mugs, and gulps his coffee down hastily. “Caught a case, gotta go, sorry.” He brushes his lips against Gibbs’ cheek quickly. “See you tonight.”

He’s out the door before Gibbs can even turn around.

 

* *

 

It’s steak night, as agreed, and they’re sitting on the couch, halfway through a mostly silent meal.

Gibbs takes a long draw from his beer, then sets it down and turns to Tobias. He runs a hand over the side of his face, where the rough scratch of a beard almost still tingles. “Tobias,” he asks slowly, “we gotta talk about this?”

“Nope.”

Gibbs says nothing.

“You hate talking,” Tobias says. It’s a statement, not an accusation. “It’s not my favorite thing, either. So unless you got a problem…” he shrugs.

Gibbs takes a moment, considering. “I got a problem.”

Tobias half turns to look at him. He’s holding himself like he’s bracing for some nasty kickback.

“Your beard.” Gibbs nods at it. “It scratches.” He brings his hand back up to his face as if to rub away a lasting sting. “Geez, Tobias, what do you do with that thing, weave in steel wool?”

Tobias breathes and collapses back against the couch, shaking his head. “You are such a bastard. A whiny bastard.” But he’s smiling. 

 

* *

 

It’s early the next time Tobias shows up. He pushes the door open carrying a large bag of groceries and noticeably clean-shaven.

Gibbs grins.


End file.
